Efflectum Memoria
by Bella7
Summary: Most people were celebrating, some were in mourning, some were still waiting to hear from loved ones, checking St. Mungo’s everyday, praying and hoping against hope. Postwar fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The HPverse does not belong to me (clearly). It's JKR's—you know that. Lyrics: The Used-Pieces Mended

**Prologue**

_Being faced with what I'm faced with I feel  
__Like I can't rock  
__Like a rock hit my heart  
__Started to chain the day  
__And exploded into pieces_

The funeral was small, private. Family, friends, co-workers—few others had been invited—even fewer had shown up. In the wake of recent events, nothing had quite gotten back to normal; most people were celebrating, some were in mourning, some were still waiting to hear from loved ones, checking St. Mungo's everyday, praying and hoping against hope. The wizarding world was in turmoil—but no longer in grave danger.

There was a young man sitting in the second row of chairs to thank for that. He kept his head of messy black hair down, his green eyes trained on the floor, his hands folded in his lap, thumbs bouncing uselessly off of one another. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but in that cemetery, listening as Arthur Weasley eulogized his son.

"I've been…so blessed, really, to have had my son for twenty-two years. I know that I'll be able to look back, when I need to, and remember him the way he was as a little boy—so curious about everything, as a schoolboy—so confident, so intelligent, and as a man—honest, driven, successful. I'll be able to remember that—to remember him—and be thankful that I've still got the rest of my family. One son hardly seems like much to lose when there are some people who've lost everything." Arthur paused for a moment, swallowing hard. The sound of Molly's sobs, muffled in her handkerchief, filled the silence. "He was a good boy, our Percy," Arthur continued hurriedly, "a good boy. I'll miss him. His mother, sister, and brothers will miss him too. Rest in peace, Perce. Or, if you can't do that, I'm sure they've got something to organize where you've gone." The head of the Weasley family dropped his balding head in a little nod and returned to his seat beside his wife. She promptly collapsed against him, weeping inconsolably.

Harry shifted in his chair behind the Weasleys. He watched morosely as Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, and Ron surrounded the casket and lowered it slowly into the ground, each tossing upon it a handful of dirt. When it was Ron's turn, Harry was aware of Hermione's hand on top of his own. He glanced over and saw her cinnamon eyes glass over as she watched Ron mutter something under his breath and drop his dirt on top of his brother's casket. Harry draped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her against him, feeling her tears soak through his dark green shirt while her hands twisted between his.

"Sorry," she whispered with a sniffle, pulling back and revealing the spot she'd left on his shirt.

Harry offered a sad smile, "Don't worry about it."

The funeral was ended not long after that and the wake at the Burrow followed immediately. People filtered in all day; Ministry workers, old schoolmates, distant family members, members of the Order. They offered their condolences to Arthur and Molly, helped themselves to the food, asked one another about families and work, and discreetly shook hands with Harry when they got the chance. Some less discreet than others, Cormac McLaggen rushed immediately over to Harry and pumped his hand enthusiastically.

"Gosh, Harry—I've been meaning to thank you. We've all been meaning to thank you. Hope we can put all this business we had between us in school aside and become—," he thankfully was not able to finish as Hermione pushed her way between the two of them.

"Oh, go away, McLaggen," she snapped with a roll of her eyes. "What are you even doing here? You weren't friends with Percy."

"Well," McLaggen had the decency to look embarrassed, "we all went to school together. I heard about what had happened…just thought I'd drop by to offer my condolences…."

"Then why don't you offer them to his _parents—_over _there._" She pointed across the room where the Weasleys were busy talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

McLaggen nodded slowly. "Right," he said, returning his hands to his pockets. "Well, I should do that."

"Yes, I'd say so," Hermione agreed coolly.

"I'm sure I'll be seeing both of you…later. Harry—good talking to you."

Harry, who had done no talking at all, simply nodded and offered a weak smile.

When McLaggen was out of earshot, Hermione turned to her best friend. "You looked like you could use a rescue."

He smiled, "My hero."

"Have you seen Ron?"

"Last I saw he was going outside with Fred and George." Harry twisted his neck to peer through the window out to the garden. Sure enough, there sat three Weasley brothers, each swigging from a bottle of beer. "Let's go sit with them," he suggested, placing his hand on her back and steering her through the guests out the backdoor.

"Hey guys," Hermione greeted quietly, dropping down into one of the chairs surrounding the glass patio table.

"'Lo Hermione," Ron replied, mindlessly loosening his tie.

"Here, Harry, crack one open," Fred tossed him a bottle from the cooler.

"Thanks," Harry twisted off the cap and sank into the chair between George and Hermione.

"Can you pass me one of those, please Fred?" Hermione asked politely, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Sure thing," he passed the icy bottle down the line and watched with slight amusement as Hermione mechanically handed her bottle back to Ron to be opened.

She took a long drink, her nose twitching as she brought the bottle from her lips to the table. "Long day," she commented sadly.

"Yep," George's long fingers grazed his cheek, noting that he needed to shave and probably should've done so that morning.

They sat in silence for a long time, not looking at each other or anything else in particular, drinking, each lost in his or her own thoughts. After awhile, things inside the house became quiet again and Arthur poked his head out the window.

"Everything all right out here?" he asked with a small smile.

The group turned, "Everything's fine, Mr. Weasley," Harry reassured, matching his smile.

"Well, come inside whenever you get hungry. There's plenty of food."

"Sure, Dad," Fred nodded.

"Dad?" Ron asked, just as Arthur was about to close the window.

"Yes?"

"Is Mum okay?"

Arthur's expression—which had almost passed for pleasant—faltered. "She'll be fine, Ron." Without another word, he pulled himself back indoors and shut the window.

That seemed to break the spell that had settled over the five of them. George wiped his hands on his pants and got to his feet. His twin followed suit, Harry, Ron and Hermione, however, did not move.

George held his bottle out to the center of the table. "To Percy—even though he was a pain in the ass. We'll still miss him."

With half-hearted smiles, everyone knocked their bottles together. "To Percy," they muttered, draining the last of their beverages.

The twins went inside, leaving three stony-faced friends on the patio.

"You all right, mate?" Harry asked sliding his bottle from one hand to the other.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Ron answered distractedly. "I mean, I'll be fine." He cleared his throat. "How're you doing, Hermione?"

She waved away his question, "I'm fine. I had my last check-up yesterday. The Healer says there's no damage."

"No damage at all?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No, Harry," she insisted, "no damage at all."

"Must've been a dud curse," Ron suggested amicably.

"Or a none-too-talented wizard," Hermione offered with a shrug. "Regardless, I'm just grateful it didn't work."

"Me too," said Harry quickly, meeting her eyes briefly before looking away.

Ron smiled through closed lips, "Here's to better days," he toasted, holding his bottle out in the style of his brother.

His friends clinked bottles, "To better days."

* * *

A/N: I'll be adding more 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One 

It was more than a few weeks after Percy's funeral that things began to return to normal. The owls stopped arriving at the trio's flat every hour asking if You-Know-Who was really gone for good, if there was anything anyone could do to thank Harry, if he thought about writing a book on the War. The answers, of course, were always the same: 'Yes, he's quite dead.' 'No, I'm perfectly fine, but thank you for the offer and the lovely basket of fruit'; and 'No, I'd rather not relive any of that, but it's certainly an idea for someone else.' By the time summer had ended, and both Ron and Harry's Auror training at the Ministry resumed, the owls had slowed to as few as five times a day.

A large brown barn owl pecked impatiently at the window. Hermione glanced up from her medical text and rolled her eyes.

Usually.

She got to her feet and pushed open the window. The owl hopped in and held out its leg, waiting for her to untie the message. "Thank you," she told it, plucking a Knut from the money dish and dropping it into its sack. Satisfied, the owl hopped out of the window again and took off for the afternoon sky.

Checking the name on the letter—Harry, of course—Hermione tossed it onto the counter and had just taken a seat when she heard a familiar whoosh from the fireplace in the living room and her name being called.

Sighing heavily and placing her bookmark between the pages, she stood and was surprised at the sight of Harry' head in the fireplace. "Hey there," she greeted pleasantly, kneeling before the green flames.

"Hey," he offered a tired smile. "Are you busy?"

Hermione considered the chapter on common infection she'd been reading for fun and shrugged. "Not really, what's up?"

"Just thought I'd see what you were doing. I've got a few minutes before my next class."

"I'm just reading, thinking about getting some lunch. You've got mail, by the way."

"Anything that looks important?"

"Hardly. Have you seen Ron today?"

"No, but I will next class."

"Mrs. Weasley wants us to come for dinner next week—make sure you tell him to get back to her." Hermione suddenly felt a throbbing ache explode in her head. Uselessly clapping a hand to her forehead, she swore under her breath.

From the Ministry, Harry looked alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"Just a headache," she said rubbing at her temples. "My potion must be wearing off."

"How long have you had a headache?" Harry asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Just this morning, I guess."

"Are you all right?"

She waved a hand in his direction, "I'll be fine—oh, jeez—I've just got to whip up another potion."

Harry didn't look convinced. "Do you want me to come home?"

"Harry," Hermione, ignoring the throbbing behind her eyes, fastened him with a signature glare. "Don't be stupid. It's a headache, I'm not dying."

"Just checking."

"Go to class, you prat, I'll be fine."

"Get some rest, you'll feel better."

"Go!"

He smiled, finally, "Yeah, okay. See you tonight."  
"I might be cooking," she said suddenly, remembering the recipe Mrs. Weasley had given her.  
Harry faked a grimace. "On second thought, I might have to stay late."

Hermione found herself laughing as he disappeared from the flames. Getting to her feet, however, the pain she'd been overlooking rushed back, nearly knocking her over.

With her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, Hermione mixed herself another maximum strength headache cure and downed it in minutes. Feeling no different after a few moments, she went back to her text and tried to concentrate on the words that were swimming before her eyes.

Downtown, in the Diagon Alley branch of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, the youngest redheaded Weasley sat behind the counter, alternating between Witch Weekly and watching as her twin brothers tested their newest creation—Fugdy Familiars: _Turn yourself-or your friends- into your favorite familiar for the afternoon!—_on their associate, Lee Jordan, and occasionally on each other.

"Gin, do you think it's normal for Lee to be that particular shade of…what would you call that, Fred?" George consulted his twin, scratching his chin.

"I'd consider that a violet…though right now he looks positively lilac."

"Lovely, really. Looks great with his eyes."

Lee Jordan, who was indeed a bright shade of lilac didn't look impressed. "I was anticipating something along the lines of fur and whiskers, George. It would've been easier to explain."

Fred shrugged, "Always room for improvement, that's what I always say, don't I Gin?"

Ginny didn't bother to look up from Witch Weekly. "Fred, you never say that."

"Well, today seems like a great time to start. I'd suggest it as our new company slogan, but I feel it sends the wrong message."

"I concur," agreed his twin, with a nod.

"I'm still purple," Lee reminded, sounding edgy.

"Lilac," the three Weasleys corrected, though Ginny half-heartedly.

"Merlin, it's dead today," Fred noticed, glancing around the near-empty store. "You'd think we'd be doing better for springtime."

"Well, it's early yet," George reminded as he and Lee returned to their corned beef sandwiches. "School isn't out and it's only Thursday. Wait for the weekend."

"It's supposed to be lovely this weekend," Ginny piped up, twirling a lock of her flaming hair around her finger.

"A good time to get a few things done," a voice from the doorway said, making the quartet turn in surprise. Draco Malfoy pointed upward, "Your sign needs painting, Weasley," he added in explanation.

Fred rolled his eyes, "Guess we'll let just anybody shop here."

"So much for those Dark Wizard wards on the door," George sighed. "Back to the drawing board, then."

"I'm not here to shop," Draco explained, sounding insulted, "I need to talk to your sister." His silver eyes fell upon Lee. "Jordan, you've got a bit of—"

"Lilac, I know."

"Well, that too—actually, I'd say it's more of an amethyst, really—but I was about to say a bit of sandwich on your chin. I assumed you knew about the…" he motioned uncomfortably to his own face.

"What do you want?" Ginny asked irritably crossing her arms over her chest.

"Just to talk to you," he repeated, sounding careless. With a look around the room, he emphasized, "In private."

"Get real," scoffed the twins in unison.

Ginny glanced sideways at her brothers, "Can you just give us a minute?"

"You're mad if you think we're leaving," Fred declared, his jaw set. George nodded in agreement.

She rolled her eyes, "Fine, fine." Sliding off of her stool, she grabbed her yellow sweater and tugged it over the shoulders of her matching yellow sundress. Ginny brushed past Draco and out the door without another word. He followed, suppressing a grin, a moment later.

"That was rather anti-climactic, don't you agree?" Lee asked, glancing from one twin to the next.

"I'll be honest, I didn't see this happening that way," George admitted, arms still crossed menacingly.

"One week off the Ministry's Most Wanted and Malfoy marches in like a sodding Maha-Raja—what's that about?" Fred sputtered angrily.

"No idea, but lovely use of alliteration," George added helpfully.

"Thank you."

Outside the shop, Ginny had stalked to the side of the building and spun on her heel, crossing her arms again. "What do you want?"

Draco's near grin had faded as he folded his arms lazily and leaned against the brick wall. "You never thanked me."

Ginny blinked. "Excuse me?"

"For saving your life, you never thanked me."

"You didn't save my life, Malfoy."

He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, "Goyle would've killed you."

"Please," she heckled, "he could've barely handled a proper Leg-Locker hex, let alone an Unforgivable. Don't kid yourself, I wasn't in any danger."

Draco shrugged, "If that's what you want to believe."

"It's what the truth is. That's why I believe it."

"Fine."

They stared at one another for a long moment before Ginny blinked, "Is that all you wanted? A little undeserved gratitude?"

"And to tell you that I was offered a teaching job."

She nearly choked. "You? A teacher? Who on Earth would hire you?"

"Snape."

"Oh, should've figured," she scoffed. "You unscrupulous types tend to stick together."

"Reading our thesaurus, are we?" he chided, making her blood boil.

"I don't have time for this," she turned and began walking back to the store.

"You look nice today," Draco said suddenly, making her stop. "Yellow's a good color for you."

"Rot in Hell, Malfoy," she said without turning around.

As she turned the corner, he heard a bell jingle, signaling her entrance to the shop. He smiled, "Someday, I'm sure."

Ron Apparated into his flat to find his roommate and best friend on the couch with a cold rag pressed to her forehead. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, rather insensitively, shrugging out of his coat.

"Headache," Hermione said in a voice that clearly stated it was obvious. "Is Harry with you?"

_Pop!_

"He is now," Ron smiled at his other best friend and hung up both of their jackets.

"How're you feeling?" Harry asked, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the couch.

"Better, the reading was starting to make it a bit much."

He looked around the apartment. "So you decided not to cook, I see."

Hermione moved the icy compress away from her eyes and gave him a quizzical look. "I did?"

"You said earlier you were going to cook."

"When?"

"When I talked to you at lunch time."

She closed her eyes, "Lunch time…lunch time…oh…oh yes, I remember now."

Harry offered her a concerned look. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"I'm fine; it's just a little headache."

"If you're sure."

"I am," she insisted firmly, fastening him with a severe look. "I'm also hungry."

"Chinese?" Ron suggest from the kitchen where he was opening a bottle of beer.

"Sounds good," Harry got to his feet and went about placing an order, trying not to worry about the young woman who was clearly not as fine as she'd been promising.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

_So forgive me  
Cause I don't know what to do  
When you look at me   
There can be no hesitation  
There cannot be a close second to you_

_-Copeland_

Hermione's headaches, it would turn out, did not get any better. In fact, as weeks passed and August faded quickly into September, they only became more frequent and more painful.

"Don't you think you should at least let the Healers look you over?" Harry asked, his patience running out one night toward the end of the month.

"No," she insisted, not looking up from her book, "I don't."

"Well, I do," Ron argued from his place across the room.

She rolled her eyes, "Well thought, Ronald. Gripping argument."

"We both think it would be a good idea, Hermione," Harry put in, reaching down to untie his shoes.

"Do you?" Hermione got up from her place on the couch and went into the kitchen. "Harry, Ron," she softened, leaning against the doorway, "I appreciate your concern, really, I do. But I'm fine."

Her roommates exchanged looks, "Yeah, okay," Ron relented with a shrug. "You're fine."

"I am fine," she insisted, turning back to the kitchen and breaking a banana off of the bunch. Harry followed her and grabbed her elbow, turning her to face him. "What?" she asked, irritably.

"You'll tell me if they get worse, won't you?" he asked quietly.

"Harry, you're being ridiculous."

"Just promise me," he persisted.

"Fine," she conceded, "if they get worse—which they won't—I'll let you know."

He let go of her elbow, "Thanks."

"Harry, are we playing chess or what?" Ron called from the living room, sounding impatient. With one more look toward Hermione, Harry sighed, and left the room.

"More to the point," Hermione began, following him out into the room and dropping onto the couch, "Don't you two have more important things to worry about?"

"No," Ron answered honestly as Harry took a seat across from him.

"Nothing at school to trouble your mind?" she asked hopefully attempting to change the subject and opening her book again.

"Not that I can think of."

"Now that you mention it," Harry said thoughtfully, trying not to grin, "no, not a thing comes to mind."

Ron, catching on, smiled as well. "Yeah, for the next few weeks it's just…boring day after boring day. Nothing important at all."

"Well that's unfortunate," she said, turning her eyes downward.

Harry looked confused. "Haven't you got anything important coming up, Hermione?"

She glanced up at him, "No, I don't think. I've got a nasty exam on Thursday, but that's it."

"Nothing else on Thursday?" Ron prompted with raised eyebrows as a chess piece hollered, "Are you going to play or should I make the first move myself!"

"Not that I know of…" Hermione offered a confused look. "You okay Ron? You look a little funny."

"Uh, no." He looked down at the chess board and began pondering a move.

She yawned and closed the medical text, "If you're just going to sit up and argue with your chess pieces, I think I'll go to bed."

"G'night, Hermione," Harry offered a little wave as she waved back and wandered into the bathroom.

"Night," Ron called after her. He lowered his voice, "She's not really forgotten about her birthday, has she?"

Harry shrugged. "Not sure. It's not like her to forget things like that."

"It's not like Hermione to forget _anything_, Harry." Ron shook his head, "I'm worried about her."

In the bathroom, Hermione locked the door and removed the prescription potion from its hiding place. Downing her dosage in one gulp, she winced as it burned her throat all the way down. Staring at herself in the mirror, she heard the Healer's voice in her ears.

"If these headaches persist, we're going to have to look into other forms of treatment, I hope you understand that," he'd told her gravely.

"What do you think is causing them?" she'd asked, trying to sound careless.

"Right now, I'm not sure. There's not a trace of Dark magic in your veins so we're ruling out curses. Anything you can think of?"

There hadn't been anything that she could think of and so the Healer had let her go with her new, stronger prescription.

It hadn't been helping. The headaches were still there, more painful than ever. Sometimes with blinding flashes of light to accompany them or waves of dizziness that washed over her when going down flights of stairs or reading too long.

She splashed some water on her face and left the bathroom, not noticing that all talking in the living room had ceased the moment she'd done so.

"Mum!" Ginny called through the Burrow, dropping her purse onto the sofa. "I'm home!"

"In here!" Molly called from the kitchen where she stood over the stove, stirring a pot of meat for shepherd's pie.

Ginny wandered in and kissed her mother on the cheek. "Smells good," she commented, automatically reaching into the cabinets for three plates.

"You've got mail, it's on the table."

She set the plates on the counter and picked up the two envelopes addressed to her. The first was a letter from Witch Weekly, which Ginny promptly crumpled up and tossed into the trash.

"What was that, dear?" Molly asked, turning from the stove.

"Just a stupid thing from Witch Weekly."

Her mother pointed her wand at the garbage can and summoned the crumpled letter to her, smoothing it out once it reached her hands. "Ginny, this is a job offer."

"I know what it is, Mum," she reached for the other letter.

"And you're just going to throw it away?"

"Obviously, that was my intention."

"Don't get smart with me, Ginerva," her daughter winced at the sound of her full name. "It says you'd have a bi-monthly column."

"Yes, I can read…all that education wasn't for nothing."

"All that education you seem perfectly all right with throwing away by working at your brothers' store for the rest of your life."

Ginny rolled her eyes. She didn't want to fight. "Mum, I'm not going to spend the rest of my life there. It's just until I…I don't know…until I figure out my next move."

Molly waved the letter, "And what do you call this?"

"A waste of talent!" Ginny shouted finally. "I don't want to write for Witch Weekly, follow around celebrities and talk about the best way to remove nasty potion stains and answer romance questions—it's not even close to what I want to do."

"You're not going to get a million chances, Ginny. You'd better start jumping at opportunities when they arise."

She rolled her eyes, "I don't have time for this. I'm going out." Without another word, she Disapparated out of the house and onto Diagon Alley.

The street was busy, but not overly crowded as Ginny made her way through a small group of people and into Quality Quidditch Supplies. There was a shiny new broom, called a Torpedo, which had everyone entranced at the front of the story. Ginny slipped past them and into the back to check the prices on a new pair of pants.

There was a terribly familiar head of white blond hair visible over the top of the rack at which she was looking. Ginny rolled her eyes and prayed that she was either wrong or would suddenly become invisible.

"Well if it isn't the runt of the Weasley litter," an overly bored voice drawled, pulling her out of the jersey rack she'd suddenly become fascinated with.

"Malfoy…"

He looked amused, "What?"

"Just…go away," Ginny sighed, not having the will to argue with him. She turned and pushed her way through the store and onto the street again.

"That's it?" He called, following her quickly.

"I don't feel like fighting with you."

"You usually don't get a choice. I insult you, you insult me…it's a lovely aspect of our trysts that I enjoy so much."

She stopped walking and allowed him to catch up with her before she turned around. "First of all, don't refer to our unfortunate meetings as 'trysts'. Secondly, stop following me, I want to be alone."

"Fine," Draco shrugged carelessly. "But I'd warn you, nothing you're worrying about is worth that wrinkle you're giving yourself right in the middle of that pretty brow of yours." He tapped her forehead with his index finger and Disapparated before she could say another word.

She stood, confused for a moment, rubbing her brow where he'd touched her, before continuing into the Leaky Cauldron for a sandwich. As she ordered, she tried to shake off the odd feeling that had come over her.

Had Malfoy just called her pretty?

Hermione paused and scratched out a line on her essay, watching as the ink melted away her unneeded sentence and everything moved up a line on the parchment. She glanced over the last three paragraphs quickly and rolled up her parchments, dropping them onto the professor's desk on her way out of the class.

Feeling quite good about her exam, Hermione hitched her bag higher up on her shoulder and pushed through the double doors that led to the spiral staircase which would take her to the lounge for lunch.

She'd taken the first three steps down when her headache potion—which she'd carefully timed to get her through her exam—wore off. A bolt of throbbing pain shot through her skull, catching her off guard and sending her falling down the stairs. She lay at the bottom of the staircase for a long time before classes officially let out and someone came to her aid.

Hermione awoke at St. Mungo's feeling numb and tingly. Harry and Ron were seated on either side of her bed, each looking terribly upset. "Please don't start," she said, her head feeling as though it weighed a ton.

"No, Hermione, I think we should start—what the bloody hell is wrong with you?" Ron asked angrily.

Harry motioned for him to calm down. "We deserve an explanation, at the very least."

"I don't know what happened," she heaved herself into a sitting position. "That's the truth!" she exclaimed upon seeing their faces. "I finished my exam early, left the class, and then I…don't know."

"You don't know?" Harry asked skeptically.

"No," she answered honestly, "I don't."

"Someone said you fell down the stairs at the Ministry…did you?" Ron prompted.

"I…I don't remember. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought," she rubbed the back of her head, feeling a lump beginning to form.

"Ron," Harry sighed, "why don't you go find a Healer—tell him she's awake."

"Yeah," Ron got to his feet, "sounds good."

Once they were alone, Harry gave her a pointed look. "What?" she asked, "I honestly don't know what happened!"

"Hermione, what's today?"

"Thursday," she answered automatically.

"What's the date?"

"It's the…" she pursed her lips, "it's the nineteenth."

"Yeah, Hermione. September nineteenth."

"I didn't _forget _my own birthday, Harry," she scoffed. "I've just been busy lately…besides, nineteen is hardly an important one. I can't do anything this year I couldn't do last year."

"I'm worried about you," he persisted, seeing through her excuses. "Something's not right with you—you'll have to admit that at some point."

"Harry, I'm perfectly—,"

"Don't tell me you're fine, Hermione. You're not fine. You're in the hospital." He offered a pleading look, "Please let them run some more tests."

"I don't need anymore tests," she crossed her arms stubbornly and turned her head away from him.

Gently, he turned her face back to his, "Would it kill you to let someone take care of you for a change?"

She tried to set her jaw, "Maybe it would."

"Please? For me? If there's nothing there…I won't bother you about it ever again."

Hermione sighed, "Liar."

"Please?" he asked again, fixing her with his emerald eyes.

Her resolve, which had been crumbling slowly, broke. "Fine, I'll let them do more tests. But I hope you know they won't find anything."

Harry leaned and kissed her forehead, "Thank you," he whispered, hoping that she was right.

A/N: The usual disclaimers apply--thanks for the feedback!


End file.
